


Gooey

by Mozart (BlondeMelancholic)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Cunnilingus, Denial, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Handcuffs, Light Dom/sub, Loud Sex, Nipple Clamps, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Teasing, Vaginal Sex, also don't care if this is ooc, garbage, holy shit i'm sweatin, i mean he doesn't milk you or anything, poor neighbors, trash, with a tvist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondeMelancholic/pseuds/Mozart
Summary: It's his birthday, and... you're still in a difficult position. A present for Angela, part II.





	

**Author's Note:**

> you want more trash? here you go. piled higher and deeper. i'm the trash man
> 
> part ii of glass animals-inspired kinky fuckery, this time inspired by some offhanded tumblr comment that bruce is probably into kinky shit behind closed doors
> 
> and part ii of birthday stuff for muh beloved penpal. keep on rockin bae

It’s a good thing you didn’t go for that solid wood headboard.

Not a thought one normally has in conjunction with one of their lover, but you can’t help but think of Bruce Wayne as you looked at that particular piece of furniture in your bedroom. Admittedly, it’s not the one you’d had when you first moved into your apartment. It’s the third, actually, and it’s all because of him. Your neighbors were first curious, then amused to see you dragging the ruined slabs of wood out to the side of the road, and you’d say with a straight face that you and your lover had been having too good of a time the night before. Then they’d laugh, and you’d laugh, too; because even to you, the idea of bedding a man who manages 180 pounds on weighted pullups was an absurd fantasy that just happened to come true. Even if he does break your furniture on occasion.

Not that he doesn’t make it up to you with a replacement, each one more expensive than the last. Ordinarily such a thing would make you feel strange, the cliché of the rich and older lover, but neither of those things are ever apparent to you when you’re in bed with him. Teeth scraping against skin, legs intertwined, hands wandering – it transcends earthly and fleeting matters. You can almost forget the gulf between you, then, your obliterated, post-coital mind willing to suggest various life alternatives, like living in a cabin in the mountains somewhere, where no one can touch you; and then your fingers find that luxurious strain of silver at his temples, and you remember who he is, and all is lost. But not all is so depressing. After all, it’s nice to get your furniture replaced.

But not today. Today, you were the one giving him a present. Not your usual plebeian kind, though you did have past successes: a lopsided, but sentimental, handmade scarf when he already had one from Saks that was worth half a grand, and he gave you a heart attack when you saw him wearing it while on TV for an interview, his look to the camera almost smug, as if he knew you were watching. Normally, of course, you don’t even bother trying to get him anything too convoluted. What could you possibly get the man who has everything, and who could not only buy what he wants himself, but also buy the company selling it? ( _Parents,_ an incredibly rude and inappropriate part of you thinks, but you’re sure that’s not something to mention)

Except it’s a special day – his birthday. He’s been busy with forming that club of his, and though it hasn’t even been that long you’ve missed him, badly. You wanted to make today as good as possible. And you’re certain that you did well in selecting a present. Well, one of them, anyway. You have a backup, just in case you lose your courage in giving your initial present.

That reminds you: he’s coming over, and you haven’t wrapped either of them yet. You’ve been sitting on your bed, looking at your headboard, ruminating on how its structure can accommodate the use of handcuffs.

Because one of the gifts is a pair of them. One of your presents is a tie, a gift meant for a sort of irony, but the other is most definitely a pair of handcuffs. Deluxe handcuffs that you researched almost too thoroughly, so now targeted advertising produces a BDSM ad no matter what innocent website you’re browsing. They’re to make up for the last pair you got him, the ones that got – ruined.

Yes – Bruce Wayne has his needs, too. True, it hasn’t always been like this. When some of your old high school acquaintances had squealed about the release of whatever _Fifty Shades_ installment had just sprouted up, you had laughed about it to your lover, considering the idea of some handsome billionaire interested in introducing some peasant to BDSM to be preposterous. You had not initially noticed his alarm, but eventually you realized that he has his inclinations.

And you’re more than willing to indulge them, and so many of them. How could you not? His stress always beats yours, and relieving him of that stress a little at a time is so fulfilling to you. You’re pleased to be his living stress ball, sometimes literally in bed as he grips you hard enough to leave marks, a sigh of satisfaction escaping you whenever his big body rests against you after he finds his release. But it’s not anything about you humoring him, either. There are times when you’ll ask for it, too; just last week you’d intentionally misbehaved so that he would lay you squirming across his lap with your underwear tugged down. It didn’t take him long to realize that the stern slap of his hand against you was the high point of your day, a blissful smile on your face even as it became an effort for you to sit down in your chair at work the next day. 

You look back on the memory fondly as you finish wrapping the presents. It’s stellar handiwork, and since the packages are almost identical, you make sure to mark one of them with a ribbon so that you can tell them apart. If you’re bold, you’ll give him handcuffs, as a sort of olive branch. He’s restrained you before, not only with cuffs but with clamps (once you’d figured out what they were, at least), and though you’re usually floating the day after, things went less well when he’d suggested that you handcuff him for a change. Apparently Bruce Wayne is not one to be teased, and he lasted for maybe all of ten minutes of your best efforts before some sort of antediluvian impulse had driven him to not only break the handcuffs to free himself, but, well – the fucking that followed led to the loss of your second headboard.

Since then, he hasn’t done anything even remotely kinky with you, outside of your aforementioned much-coveted punishment, which had made him seem a little guilty afterwards, much to your distress. He doesn’t exactly hang you by your thighs from the rafters in a full leather outfit and whip you with a spare charger cable, but it’s unusual for things to be so strictly vanilla for so long (in reality, only matter of months, which was, for the two of you, several years in a regular person’s sex life). And of course – you like being his pet, too, when the mood strikes you. And strike it often does, with you practically cheeking his thigh whenever you’re alone together, begging for it, _gagging_ for it, until you’re sated. 

At the same time, you aren’t certain if it was gauche to give someone such a thing as a birthday present, which is why you have your backup. And you have just gotten them neatly wrapped and stacked when your lover finally arrives.

You’d thought you were ready: you’d tidied, and freshened up, and had even done your makeup hours in advance so that he wouldn’t arrive to find your face half-done, looking like you were on your way to the milkbar before a bit of the old ultraviolence. But as soon as you let him in, with him wearing an outfit that was probably worth more than you make in a year, you immediately question everything you thought you knew. You whirl around desperately as he comes in to make himself at home, hoping that the place doesn’t look like a complete dump. You don’t look like you live in a dumpster, right? Right?

He’s looking around appreciatively, though, and you have to remember how little he actually comes here. You could have taken him anywhere for his birthday – or rather, he could have taken you, as you could almost never afford the restaurants he is used to frequenting – but to be in your home is a special thing. It’s not that you are merely trying to protect future headboards, of course; besides the fact that his home is much nicer than yours, you just don’t want him to look too closely at your sad, commoner lifestyle and leave you. But he hasn’t yet, and he isn’t right now, and you’re at least 99% sure that it goes beyond your willingness to wear those clamps you have squirreled away in your nightstand drawer.

(And lastly – you have to do a fellow worker a favor, once in a while. Last time you were over at your lover’s house, Alfred had mentioned so tactfully to you about how he had found these incredible noise-canceling earplugs, and you took the hint)

Bruce is standing over your new favorite piece of furniture, his hands shoved into his pockets as he surveys it. Yes – that’s one thing you forgot, already. You forgot to move it away and now it’s standing in the middle of your already-cramped apartment.

“That wasn’t here before,” he notes, and you remember again with some shame that he hasn’t been at your place in months.

“It’s called a _kotatsu,_ ” you blather on with little provocation. “It’s Japanese – I mean – my friend taught abroad, he recommended them – bought one for me – in a way – and with heating costs, I had to cut back – they heat things up – ” You sound like a low-effort, fake Amazon review. Bashfully you finish with, “It’s really warm.”

Someone worldly like your lover definitely knows what a _kotatsu_ is, but he humors you. “It’s nice. You mind if I indulge?”

“What? Oh! Yes!” You gesture to it wildly like an overeager theater usher. “Please, do! It’s your birthday, after all.” Suddenly you can’t remember if you forgot that part when letting him in, but to be fair, you forget most things that go through your head when you look at Bruce Wayne. “Happy birthday, Bruce!”

“Thank you,” he says, suppressing a smile as he sits. He’s far too big to fit under the whole thing, but it’s cold outside, and anything will do. “It must really be happy. You’ve only said it three times already, and I’ve only been here for five minutes.”

“Oh…!” You fumble for a witty, Sorkinian retort, but he’s smiling for real now and that blows away any one you may have had. “Oh – your present! I’d better get it!”

Because you have nothing else to get him. You had desperately asked him if he had any special requests for his birthday – a special dinner, a cake, a stripper – but he assured you that all he wanted was your company. You hope that that’s code for wanting sex, though you also suppose that it’s not so special, because he can have it practically any time he asks for it.

“I hope I don’t need this one explained to me,” he says, informing you that he’s in a teasing mood: you know exactly what he means. The time he got you a present for being such a good girl, telling you that they were butterfly clamps. You were initially surprised at what sounded like such an innocent gift – by then you were no stranger to having such unusual jewelry on that part of your body, sure, but with the name, you were reminded of the hair clips you had when you were a girl, and you were stumped when you opened the box.

“That was _one time,_ ” you insist to save face, which makes you turn around to look at him again. You’re struck by the sight of him; in your cozy, but pedestrian apartment, he looks like some subject of fine art that wandered out of a painting and sat down in your home, legs fitted under your furniture as he watches you.

Your body is moving, moving, moving on its own accord, and you abandon your original objective in order to return to him. He has no time to ask what for, and perhaps he doesn’t need to at all, because there is no bemusement when you fit yourself onto his lap and wrap your arms around him. Your feet are now under the blanket, too, but the warmth you find there is nothing compared to what’s smoldering in your chest as you kiss him. Seconds, minutes, and potentially hours and days melt away as you hold him like this, his fingers gripping your waist imperceptibly as though he may never want to let you go, as though – just for right now, just for a moment, at least – he really does love you, too. And though you’re only one human being in this world, you wish that you could get rid of all of his problems. That’s impossible, but you can at least make him forget about them for a few hours, giving him something to control that doesn’t involve him getting shot at.

When you finally separate, his teeth sinking down on your bottom lip for just a moment as if criticizing your decision to pull away for air, you find that both of your hands have moved significantly from where they were at the start. Your mind is spinning and you almost fail to manage to disentangle your fingers from his hair, and though he has a much easier task of realigning, he does not seem interested in moving his hand from where it’s settled against the curve of your rear.

You wonder if there’s anything in the English language you can possibly say, if your tongue will even work properly again, and both your brain and heart get gooey when he’s staring into your eyes like this, his pupils dilated. You try, your voice all kinds of soft and pathetically enamored, by saying, “Happy birthday, Bruce.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s the fourth time.”

“Oh…! Well, it’s s-still happy, you know.”

“Is it? Another reminder I’m an old man,” he says, feigning a sort of resignation, as if anything has changed from the last time you had seen him, when you had ended up like a pretzel on his bed.

You scoff at this blasphemy. “You? You’ll live to be a hundred, Bruce. Why – I’ll be in the ground before you.”

His grip tightens a little more against your flesh, and he looks away from your face. “Don’t say that.”

So the rude part of you won out for once; shame floods you. You’ve troubled him, and on his birthday, no less. Anxious to right the accidental wrong you caused, you lean forward and kiss him again, though this time you make a desperate attempt to remind yourself of why you had invited him over in the first place. A part of you is urging you to cancel any kind of birthday festivities and take him right there, especially given how wholeheartedly he reciprocates, but you scrabble to find purchase on some plane of rationality. When you separate again, more to yourself, you murmur, “I’ll forget about your present.”

“Forget it.” His grip tightens on you. “You know I don’t need anything.” God, does he know how deep, how gravelly his voice is when he gets like this? Your thighs seem to open just a little more, as if in anticipation. There seems to be a sort of glow in his eyes when he looks at you – perhaps not the goopy romantic glow, but something like the glow of candlelight, fire stoked deep inside – and he says, “You’re all I want.”

In terms of words that make you go red in the face, he’s definitely said more explicit things, but apparently this is all you need today. “That’s not very special. You can have me whenever you want.”

“Not as often as I’d like.”

You toy with the idea of quitting your job to live in a cardboard box outside of his home, wearing nothing but lingerie and coming inside to warm his bed up at night. “I can be your live-in pet, if you’d like. Certainly an upgrade from this dump.”

“If that’s your offer, then you’ve outdone yourself this year, in terms of birthday gifts.”

You scoff, finally pushing up off of him, though not without memorizing the way his hands slide across your body to let you go. “How about how you’ve outdone yourself?”

A look of bland innocence. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“With Vermont? Oh… I think I still feel those marks.”

With that reminder of public sex and exposed love bites and the like, you resolve to give him the tie instead of the handcuffs. Of course, it’s not an unpleasant memory that flashes through your mind as you return to fetch what you wrapped, and that fondness, along with dizzy sensation you’re still experiencing, leads you to a conundrum as you reach your destination. 

Namely: what the hell was in which box?

Well, this is the fault of your cheap ass, not wanting to buy more than one gift wrap. Were the handcuffs in the box with the ribbon, or in the one with the bow?! Why had you not written it _down?_ Oh, because you had thought you’d be smart enough to remember to tell two things apart. And because you weren’t expecting to be so giddy after kissing your lover, something millions of people do every day without turning into idiots. You try to think back to when you were wrapping them, such a short time ago, but heat flushes in your face and all you can remember is the scent of his cologne, the pressure of his hands against your body, the soft texture of his hair against your fingers.

Hastily you make a decision: yes, the tie is definitely in the present with a ribbon. Something fancy like a ribbon to offset the cultured simplicity of the tie. _You can buy whatever you like, but normal lovers get each other things like this, right?_ Hah, perfect. Something much saner than handcuffs. Not like he hasn’t restrained you with ties before, but – still. Sanity. You were going to have a perfectly sane, lovely evening.

You return to him and place the present in his lap, though the look he gives you suggests that he’d rather have you returned to that spot instead. Still, he is tolerant about it as he begins to open it, carefully pulling apart the ribbons as you sit behind him, pressing yourself against his back. He does not shake it, as you might have, which is good, because it won’t ruin the integrity of the tie, which you have positioned so attractively. Instead he removes the wrapping with the greatest care, as if, perhaps, dismantling a bomb, or unzipping your dress, both of which require the whole of his concentration and attention.

“I hope you’ll be wearing it all the time,” you tell him when you hear him fidget with the lid. “I think it’s quite nice. Even though you could probably get something better.” God, if that wasn’t the story of your fucking life.

“Yes, but it has your seal of approval on it.” As he gets the lid off he seems to be about to say something else, to continue, but it disappears when he looks inside.

“Do you not like it?” you ask, admittedly a little worried. Recipients not liking their gifts keeps you up at night even years after it happens. When he still doesn’t reply, you say, “Bruce?”

“You want me to wear it?” His voice has a strange, strained quality to it.

“Well, yeah. Why not?”

Immediately you know something is wrong, and you have an inkling – but you were so confident, so surely you couldn’t have been wrong, right? Right?

Until he turns to you, handcuffs dangling from his hands, a look in his eyes that immediately makes you start thinking of safeword ideas.

“Because,” he says, “I always thought they look better on you.”

And this is how you end up handcuffed to your headboard, once more feeling fortunate that you had gone for the one with posts so that you can indulge in activities like these.

You’re positioned on your knees, all sorts of pillows positioned around to make sure you’re comfortable and won’t suffer from strain, but all you want to do is bury your face into them – which, to be fair, is not a position you’re unfamiliar with when it comes to Bruce Wayne, getting pressed into them as he gives you one of those say-goodbye-to-walking-normally fuck sessions. And you want to bury your face into them because you can feel him right behind you, fingers gliding over your exposed skin, a soft laugh escaping him as you twitch with anticipation of his next touch. It’s impossible to feel anything but vulnerable in this sort of a position, completely at his mercy, wondering what he’ll do next. 

You peek over your shoulder and he smiles at you, running a hand down your spine as he asks, “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” you say, misery flooding through as you realize that, with your given position, it’s impossible to touch him, and so you arch your back into his touch.

“Good.” His hand stops at the curve of your ass. Suppressing some amusement, he says, “You want me to spank you again, don’t you?”

Excitement flits through your stomach. “Yes, I do.”

“Very badly.”

“Very.”

“You’d be upset if I didn’t.”

You tug at your restraints in desperation, eagerness. “ _Yes._ ”

Like that, his hand is removed, and you’re nearly razed to the ground by the loss. “Then you won’t get it.”

“ _Bruce!_ ” you cry; you can’t believe this obvious sadism. Thank God you haven’t yet gotten into orgasm denial, or you may just fall apart. “Come on, _please?_ ”

“You ask for it so nicely.” He is on the bed with you now and you can feel him lean down and touch his mouth against your ankle. A kiss. “But there’s something in the way you say it that makes me think you’re expecting it.” Now another one against your calf. “Like you know I’ll give it to you.” Another one against the inside of your knee, making you shiver. “You’d think I was wrapped around your finger.”

“No,” you insist desperately, your mind muddled as you beg for anything at all. “I’m wrapped around yours,” you say, which is the truth. And then, to be good: “I be _long_ to you.”

He goes still beside you for just a moment, frozen over where he was going to press a kiss to your thigh, and you can feel his breath against your skin. For a moment you panic; you saying such things can now and again lead to him going into a sort of angst, telling you that you shouldn’t feel that way, that he’s wasting your time, that you should get out while you can. Not that you’ve ever listened, anyway, but today really must be a special occasion, because finally, finally you feel his mouth against your thighs and he says, “Yes, you do.”

But there’s something in it that seems to hide a secret message, as if he belonged to you, too; because you’re the only one he can do this with, and you’re the only one he can expose himself to like this. Hearing that he dabbles in some kink behind closed doors could be fuel for an exposé piece, supplied by a bitter ex-lover, but he knows that you won’t do it. He feels secure with you, comfortable. Trusts you. But he’ll never say any of this to you, oh, no, won’t give you the satisfaction, though words are nothing compared to the feel of him against you as he finally reaches his target, finally, oh, you can feel his breath against you, against where you need him the most, and you’re already wet with anticipation.

Except he doesn’t put his mouth against it. Not quite yet. You realize he’s teasing you, but you can’t do anything to stop it. You squirm and plead, and when you can’t take any more you try to turn a little. “Bruce, please, won’t you – ”

And what follows is such an obscene noise that you surprise even yourself as he moves forward and presses his mouth against your sex. It’s an angle that you’re not used to and it feels unbelievably naughty to have him devouring you like this, no part of your cunt left untouched, his pace varying between languid, to make you beg, and frenzied, to make you cry. Your thighs are shaking and you’re sure they’ll fail you when you feel him slip his tongue inside of you from behind but he’s holding them fast, holding you steady. Because your job may be to be restrained like this, but to take care of you is his.

Even if that part is subjective. Because it’s torture to be completely at his mercy like this, as you’re unable to partake in the usual pleasures that come when your lover goes down on you; you can’t grind against his face, can’t touch yourself, can’t even be rewarded by looking at his face as he eats you out from behind. Which is why he does it, of course. All you can do is bury your face into the pillow to smother the stream of incoherent moans and curses as he drags his tongue up and down your cunt, his fingers moving to just touch your clit, a low and male and primitive growl escaping his throat as he just takes you in, consumes you, swallows you whole. 

When you come, the noises you make don’t sound quite seductive to you – they sound more like a stream-of-consciousness concerto of blissful and ragged relief after a period of desperation, which is near enough what you’ve been through. There seem to be both words of thanks and naïve love at the same time, and perhaps you’re cursing him as well, cursing somebody, anything, because you can’t touch him, can’t stroke your fingers through your hair or bring his hand to your breast, as you’re used to doing when he gives you head. Whatever you’re saying through your idyllic haze, he’s certainly not displeased, and you can hear his laugh, soft and low and dark and full of satisfaction as he watches you writhe. 

With this sort of cruelty in mind, you are sure that he is going to tease you, make you beg for it, beg for him inside of you. So it’s a surprise when you feel him push his fingers into you, slowly, almost gently. Testing your sensitivity, you know, and though you bite back the whimper that threatens to tumble forth, a little involuntary shiver runs down your back, and he not only withdraws his fingers from you but also pushes away from you, and the lack of contact is even worse torture than simply teasing you.

“No!” you cry out, pulling ineffectually at your handcuffs as you struggle to look back at him. Moments before you had been flushed and blown flat after the orgasm, regaining your breath and working past a dry throat, but you rally your energy enough to fight your restraints and bring some command into your voice. “I _need_ you!”

In these positions, Bruce Wayne is your boss, but of course, he’s still a man, and it’s difficult to resist you when you not only plead with him, but implore and even order him around like this, even though you’re perfectly restrained. But you’re still his stress ball here, his pet, and so he warns you, as seriously as he can manage, “You’ll fall apart.”

“No, I won’t!” you insist, tugging at your bonds again. Your force takes a backseat to your obedience, your utter commitment to being the only thing that he needs. “I won’t – I promise!” And again, the insistent “ _Please?_ ”

He is looking out for your own good, of course, but he also knows that you really can take it. He’s done it before, after all, and on your insistence, against his own reluctance: him making you climax not once but twice and maybe even three times, with you just about spent and flushed and barely able to raise your hips, but still tugging at him, pulling at him, insisting. And really – has he ever been able to say no to you?

There is no need to try and look for him again. When you feel his hands on your hips, your heart jumps to your throat and your heartrate, now slower as you come down from your orgasm, picks up again in pure anticipation. It’s hell whenever he tortures you by making you wait for that first thrust, but at the same time, that little anticipation right before he does – sometimes that alone is almost enough for you. Almost. But not quite. Because, of course, there’s something you like better.

Finally, finally, he pushes inside of you, little by little, inch by inch. You try to press your face into your pillow to avoid revealing those pleasure-contorted faces you make when you feel him fitting inside of you, but he takes your hair and turns your head gently, though firmly, so that he can see you. An involuntary groan escapes you as you feel his commanding grip, his fingers against your scalp, and ordinarily that may amuse him, but not now; no, he is far too focused on feeling you around him, feeling how you tighten and pulse around him, as though your body just needs him, as though you’ve been waiting for him the whole day, the whole _week._

It’s a feeling he savors, especially when you’re so helplessly at his mercy like this, unable to even pull him deeper inside of you. But when he takes you so slowly, not even thrusting yet, just adjusting to you – you can’t help but get just a little impatient. Because you like pretty much every time he takes you, but now you are thinking of the times he fucks you with urgency. The time your work was held up by some criminals too amateurish to sweep the entire place, and had failed to find you underneath your desk, deciding to sleep until you could leave work. Bruce had not known this, however, and thus, when you had finally been “rescued,” the glad-you’re-alive sex had been so intense that you might have believed your ankles were made for a permanent position on his shoulders. That time, you’d even managed to fuck on the hood of the Batmobile, and that’s a big deal, for you. With these fond memories in mind, you lose yourself, forget where you are and who you are, and with frustration you squirm and cry out, “Deeper!”

He stops inside of you, completely still. For a moment you panic, ready to slap yourself had you not been bound, but to your surprise, he acquiesces. He sinks deeper inside of you than you thought he could even go, your body twisting to accommodate him. You can feel him get even harder inside of you, feel him pulse, but he doesn’t move. Completely still.

He’s just so fucking _big_ that even you are getting overwhelmed by the feel of him inside of you, and you squirm desperately, shooting a miserable look over your shoulder. He’s watching you, once-carefully groomed hair mussed and sticking with sweat to his forehead, his pupils blown and breathing ragged, but he manages a grin when he says, “Well?”

“What?” He is holding your hips, and you can’t even push back or forward.

“You seem to want to give the orders tonight,” he tells you casually. How the fuck is his voice so even when he’s so deep inside of you like this? Is there anyone like Bruce Wayne in the world? “You’ll have to tell me what to do next.”

He’s evil. Fucking evil. You’d only had a momentary lapse! Just one word, just _one_! And, no, you didn’t want to be in control, no, not here, not like this, now when you’re tied up like this. He’s your boss, practically your master, and though you know he knows it, perhaps he just likes hearing the reminder from you.

“Bruce!” It comes out more like a choking sob, your body now trembling with the effort of holding him inside of you, so still, for so long. “P-Please… I’m sorry…”

“Are you?” But he moves his hips just a little, relieving you of some of the pressure inside of you.

You turn your face away, secretly savoring the sensation that even the tiniest movement was bringing you; you’re lit up, your cunt so sensitive that even this is respite. “Forgive me.”

“I forgive you,” he says, beatific. “You’re a good girl.” Could you ever have imagined that those words alone would make you tighten around him? “But you don’t need to apologize. I’m sure I can tell what you want.”

Your brain stupidly decides that, in case he needs help while he’s seated inside of you as you writhe and tremble, you should say, “I want you to _fuck me_.” Not even authoritative, hardly even seductive to you, the syllables stretched long and dopey, the addled language of those past the point of desperation for getting fucked out. In case he tries to punish you again, you add that magic word: “ _Please,_ ” but sobs of frustration stretch it out into quite a few syllables.

It’s also something that could easily lead to his amusement, but to hear you already falling apart so easily is like a drug to him. That’s why you’re his favorite, really – he has a reputation, true, but it’s harder than it looks, even by those who claim that they know the game; and despite promises of no strings attached, he would often nevertheless get headaches, or find himself in irritating places. When he made you his lover, even he couldn’t be sure of what to expect. But when he asks you something, you’ll almost always give him an honest answer even if you swore you wouldn’t. So when he asks you if you want it hard – what else are you supposed to say but _yes?_ But is it necessary for you to say _yes_ over and over again, ecstatically, as if he might change his mind if you don’t? Well…

It’s seemingly not enough for you to be cuffed to the headboard, defenseless, submissive. Because he takes your hips in his hands once more and you’re tilting, tilting, until you’re at the mercy of the pillows. He’s lifted you up, just a little, reminding you of the complete physical control he holds over you. You know immediately that he’s listened to you – better yet, you’ve unlocked some deep and primal part of him that he must keep dormant until these moments with you. You’re ready for it, just so fucking ready, and so when he starts to take you, the pace moderate at first but ramping up to fucking you within seconds, the moans of elation that he gets out of you are almost impossible to stifle, even if you try your damndest.

Your fingers grip your restraints until your knuckles are white, your body tipped over and off-balance as he assumes control of you, every piston-like thrust reminding you of who owns you, who is going to make it hard for you to walk. In every way, you’re subjugated; when your ecstatic cries trial off as you listen to those irresistible sounds of satisfaction that he’s making, he notices, and goes at you harder until you can’t help but make those little noises of pleasure again.

You’re not sure if time is passing correctly, or if he’s controlling that, too – he must have been fucking you for at least ten minutes, or was it five? Twenty? An hour? Is it still his birthday anymore, and have you missed work? Your head is spinning until you are let down somewhat and you regain some sort of control over your posture. And not for no good reason; you can feel how hard he’s gotten inside of you, how bigger he must be, and you know how close he is. You’ve had your turn, and you want him to have his, and he is so absolutely fucking _close_ to doing so you can taste it. 

He knows it too, of course, no matter how much he’d like to abandon all other responsibilities to stay in your bed for the rest of the day or week or month; which he thinks just about every time he’s inside of you. He grits his teeth and asks you, “Where do you want it?”

“In me,” you answer immediately, feeling selfish, but it’s a treat for him to ask you, and you’re going to take advantage of it. In case you answered too quickly, you squirm to look at him over your shoulder, giving him a pathetic look as you say, “Inside of me, _please._ ”

You may have thought that your look was pathetic, but to him it’s addictive, that lustful look in your eyes, that fucked-silly look you have long tried and failed to subdue. But you don’t know this, and so for a moment you’re afraid that he’ll deny you. He’s come on your back before, and you’ve held yourself diligently in place until he returns to clean you up; and though he is Bruce Wayne, and a vigilante crime-fighting criminal, he is still just a man, and he’ll destroy your best efforts by aiming a swat at your ass and making a mess anyway. Truth be told, you’d take it anywhere just to have it, to know that you made him do it, but today you want him inside of you, want to feel his heat, his release, even after he’s withdrawn from you.

It is his birthday, and he can do whatever he wants, but your plea is so irresistible that he can’t bear to ignore it. He takes you like an animal, merciless, pulling you onto him even as he fucks you deep. You can feel every frustration, every concern, every little trouble he’s experienced since he last saw you melting off of him until he’s stripped raw. And the restraint that he usually shows you even in the most intense moments is lost, save for the permanent responsible part of him that reminds him not to destroy you, not to split you in half. His grip is digging into you and he releases one hand to grasp your headboard with enough force that it almost slams into the wall behind it.

You know, then, that it’s here, that it’s time. Sure enough, you can hear that precious strangled groan, and he fits himself so deep inside of you that you’re certain you’ll never be able to separate from him again. Though you’re being literally thrust forward, you manage to turn to watch him, knowing you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. Your dizzy mind is unable to grasp a single thought, so you just take it in, hardly able to process anything, just absorbing that look of utter, unrestrained rapture on his face that only you’re privy to. Though he is far more trained than you, able to tame and groom even the most intense loss of control, you can still see it in his eyes, yes, that fucking unselfconscious, unequaled ecstasy, a look between pain and pleasure and yet simultaneously both.

Your other thoughts are quaint: as you feel the heat of his release hit deep inside of you, filling you, and as you enjoy these most basely physical sensations relished by mankind since the beginning of time, you can also appreciate more material things. Yes – for once, you must have gotten a sturdy headboard, because it stays intact.

It takes a long time for him to come down, his body slumped against yours, and with a heroic and herculean effort your shaking thighs manage to hold the two of you up until he pulls out of you. He cleans you up before he unshackles you, and finally you allow yourself to fall back against the bed, utterly boneless as he gently chafes your wrists for you. Taking care of you, as usual; when you sigh, you can feel any weight you may have had lift right off of you.

The pillows are still all around you both, and thus you feel like you’re in some kind of soft and blissful heaven. To others, it may seem incongruous that you may go from being fucked raw to being held like this, but you relish it, taking in the warmth of his body as the sweat cools on yours. He is lazy and languid after his orgasm, but he is still alert enough to pull you back against his side after your squirming adjustments take you an inch too far away from him.

“I love – ” you begin, and he is certain you’re going to get carried away by post-coital affection as you are known to do, but you finish with “ – that _kotatsu._ ”

He bites back a grin and decides to take you seriously. “Oh, really?”

“ _Yes._ ” Your face is pressed into his side, your voice muffled as he massages your scalp, your hair coiling around his fingers. Right now you feel you were wrong, definitely wrong about thinking there is a gulf between the two of you. Sure, he is richer and better-looking and older and wiser and stronger than you, but you’re certain you have a couple of good qualities of your own, and you feel as though there is no gulf, but rather an island that only the two of you exist on. “I got to sit on your lap because of it, you know.”

He scoffs. “You just need to ask, and I’ll make room for you.”

 _Even at a board meeting, or something?_ you wonder, and decide to brush it aside before you start seriously entertaining the thought. Blissfully, dopey, you say, “Happy birthday, Bruce.”

You’re not even looking, but you can feel the vibration of a laugh deep in his chest, and you know he’s smirking at you. “That’s the fifth time, you know.”

“Well – it really is happy.”

You look up at him to find him looking at you, and before your eyes, his gaze drifts down to your chest. You’re wondering if he’s thinking about how your breasts were criminally underutilized as you were shackled up, perhaps because of your position, but he simply says, “You know – ”

“What?” Feeling a little indulgent, you take one of his hands and bring it to your chest. A reward. After all, you’re certain that you have completely obliterated whatever reluctance he had about putting you in handcuffs again.

Indulging you, his hand envelops one of your breasts, massaging it almost thoughtfully. “Back there. You thought you were giving me another present, weren’t you?’

You guiltily remember your mistake. “Yes.”

“And it’s still around here, right?”

Not sure where he’s going with this, you gesture in some vague direction. “Over there somewhere.” You could have been more specific, but you’re still trying to put your brain back together.

He stands up and leaves you, and you’re immediately outraged at the loss of his warmth beside you. You’re not even certain how much time has passed, but energy now courses through you, as if you’re already ready for further torture.

You turn over and around to find him going through the drawer of your nightstand. You’re about to warn him he’s looking in the wrong place when he pulls out a long and thin chain, and you realize what he’s been searching for.

And this is how you end up handcuffed back to the bed, enduring the butterfly clamps that are once more exerting mind-numbing pressure as you squirm and make the most pathetic noises known to man. And your lover is completely and unabashedly unsympathetic to any of it as he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from you as he slowly, deliberately, carefully opens up the other present you got for him.

“ _Bruce,_ ” you plead.

“This really is nice,” he muses appreciatively, ignoring you as he handles your tie with care. “You have good taste. But, a tie? That’s for wives to give, don’t you think?”

In the haze of the pressure, you’re not thinking straight, and so it sounds like a marriage proposal. Hectically you answer, “Yes! _Yes!_ ”

“What’s that?” Finally he turns to you, stands over you with that demonic aloofness, and then takes the connecting chain between the clamps and gives it a rough tug, sending you into an oblivion of pressure so intense that involuntary tears spring from your eyes.

“I do!” you are saying nonsensically through the pain, over and over, a manic smile on your face as tears, which you hardly even notice, spill out over your cheeks. “I do, I do, I _do…_ ”

Finally he catches your meaning, and his breathless laugh joins in with yours. You take this as a good sign, that he’s definitely proposing marriage and you’re going to be his wife, and you’ll bear his children and finally let Alfred rest easy, and you’ll warm his bed up every night and wear handcuffs daily, and he –

He gives the chain another sharp tug, and your laugh crescendos into a scream that you are sure will earn you another stern note underneath the door.

You’re certain that in an hour, you won’t be able to walk and you won’t be able to put a bra on for a few days. 

Maybe next time – you should just bake him a cake?

…No. Definitely not.


End file.
